


As Long As You Can

by GhostGarrison



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Flogging, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Public Punishment, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 12:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8249417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostGarrison/pseuds/GhostGarrison
Summary: When Anders is caught for his fifth escape attempt, the templar in charge decides his punishment would serve as an example to all. In fact, it would be more effective if it came from a fellow mage. Unfortunately, that fellow mage is Karl, his secret lover.For the kink meme prompt: "Karl is forced to publicly flog his (secret) young lover bloody and raw in front of the entire Circle."





	

The tower library is quiet, only the hushed murmurs of clustered apprentices studying spells and ancient tomes can be heard. Karl leads a small group lesson on the finer points of levitation spells, demonstrating the skill on several stacks of books for his pupils to observe. His senior, Wynne, is across the large room, speaking to her own group of apprentices in her soft, warm voice.

Both of their lessons are rudely interrupted as a templar, Knight-Captain Belric, storms through the library’s double doors. The abrupt sound echoes through the quiet hall, startling all of its inhabitants and halting their studies.

The Knight-Captain’s sharp, angry eyes narrow on the two elder enchanters in the room before addressing them both. “Gather everyone in the Circle, now!”

Carefully lowering his hovering books to the floor, Karl dares to glance at Wynne, who returns his slight perplexed look before they turn back toward the templar. The apprentices maintain a frightened silence, their eyes wide and nervous about the sudden situation. 

Karl clears his throat, speaking in a calm tone opposite of the templar’s own. “Are these instructions from Knight-Commander Greagoir?”

“No,” Ser Belric replies, voice growing impatient, “Knight-Commander Greagoir has been called away from the tower. As such, I have been left in charge.”

When no one moves to follow the command, and Ser Belric only repeats his order with more vigor. “Gather the Circle immediately, to the Great Hall!”

From instincts of self-preservation, apprentices immediately shuffle towards the door, abandoning their books and spells in favor of obeying the one thing that scares them most at this point in their young lives. Karl and Wynne, along with other enchanters, spread throughout the tower floors, quickly and quietly gathering all the mages in the tower. As he passes Enchanter Cera in the boys’ dormitories, Karl asks if he knows what’s happening. The other man shakes his head.

The benches of the Great Hall have been pushed aside, creating a large circle of empty space in the middle. Dozens of apprentices and enchanters of every rank line the edges of the room. The air is heavy with apprehension, as the young members quietly chatter amongst themselves and the older members exchange concerned looks with each other over the heads of the children in their care.

Karl carefully weaves through the growing crowd, asking the nearest enchanters if they knew why they were summoned. It seems that no one has any idea, but they’ll soon find out.

Knight-Captain Belric strides in, flanked by what seems to be the rest of the tower’s templars. He comes to a stop in the center of the hall, in the center of the open ring made by the mages. Holding up an armored hand, he bids for their silence. Apprentices settle quickly, leaving only a few lingering whispers here and there as they wait for the man to speak.

“Here in the Kinloch Circle, we have rules,” Belric begins, voice booming with an unfamiliar power he’s unused to wielding. “Rules are to be followed, to the letter, or there will be consequences.”

The templar paces the clearing like a predator, a warlord tyrant before his cowering people. “And anyone who decides to break these rules… will be punished,” Belric continues, thin lips twisting up into a self-gratified smirk. “ _Severely_.”

The Great Hall’s doors swing open with a bang, and all eyes are drawn to the scene unfolding. Two final templars enter, their heavy boots clanking against the stone floor and their faces obscured by their helmets. Between them, they are dragging someone with one hand under each elbow, pulling and tugging the person—male, by the look of them—who is fighting them every step of the way.

Though the boy is in plain but filthy clothes with hair hanging over his face, Karl would recognize his apprentice—no, his lover—anywhere.

“Oh, Anders,” Karl sighs under his breath, heart seizing with worry. He has been missing for the past five days, but he was hoping his lover was only avoiding him because of a stupid spat.

The crowd murmurs, gossip already flying in whispered voices, but it hushes immediately when the Knight-Captain raises his hand again.

“This apprentice—” Belric announces to the crowd, and Karl’s lip quirks. The templar is not even giving Anders the dignity of saying his name, even if it’s not his real one. “This apprentice thought he would disobey the rules, disobey the Chantry’s law, and attempt to escape the Circle Tower.”

“I didn’t attempt, I succeeded!” Anders snaps with his usual spirited self, which certainly doesn’t seem to make the Knight-Captain happy. His fiery outburst earns him a slap in the face, the loud crack of metal against bone causes the crowd to collectively cringe. Anders, however, isn’t fazed at all, despite blood dripping from his nose and a long cut across his cheek.

“Obviously not well enough,” Belric grits out. He turns back to the rest of the mages, cowering, pressing back against each other to move as far away from the templar in the center as possible.

Karl stands strong, however, with his fists clutched at his sides.

“Escaping is fruitless. The Templar Order has ways to find anyone who escapes—phylacteries, to specific. Templars also have full authority to perform the Rite of Tranquility or kill—” Belric pauses, emphasizing how much power he has over the lives of the mages that are supposed to be in his charge, “—any mages who are deemed dangerous or unruly.”

It’s subtle, but the way that Anders flinches at the mention of tranquility doesn’t go unnoticed by Karl. It’s a mage’s worst nightmare, a fate worse than death. Only months earlier, they made a promise to each other, to save each other from that miserable life even by means of death.

“Disobey the rules and divine punishment is inevitable,” Belric states, holding out his hand as a faceless templar comes forth and places something in it.

Something impossibly heavy drops in his gut when Karl realizes it’s a whip.

“You can’t,” Karl exclaims all too loudly, the attentions of everyone in the silent hall turn to him. He moves forwards through his fellow mages, stumbling with hesitation at first but gaining confidence with each step he takes towards the ring. “You can’t do this, Ser Belric.”

“Karl—” Anders says, both pleading and warning, still pulling at the templars’ grip on his arms. When he tilts his head up, honey-colored eyes connect with his—bitter, angry, but under all of that false determination, Karl can tell he’s frightened.

“This is not right,” he says, turning back to the Knight-Captain. “Lashings haven’t been used in this Circle Tower since the Blessed Age.”

Belric barks out a laugh. “I can, as you see when Knight-Commander Greagoir takes one foot out of this tower, I have control.” His lips twist up in a terrible grin, teeth sharp and glistening like a wolf’s. “According to the Chantry and the Templar Order, my word is law now.”

As much as it kills him to admit it, Karl knows this is true.

The Knight-Captain turns to the crowd of circle mages surrounding them, watching them with cautious eyes. “This is the fifth time this apprentice has tried to leave the tower. And this is the fifth time he has failed. Obviously he needs to be made an example of, to not give anyone… similar ideas.”

The templar turns on his heel, finally rounding back to Karl and forcefully pressing the coiled whip into his hand. The mage stares down at the cruel weapon, swallowing slowly.

“And since he might take the correction more to heart if coming from one of his own, _you_ will be the one to do it.”

Horrified noises erupt from the crowd, apprentices and enchanters alike whispering wildly at the events unfolding before them. Karl feels a wave of sickness roll over him, feeling the weight of it in his hand and the feel of the leather beneath his fingers.

When he doesn’t respond, Belric gives the whip an experimental tug. “Unless you’d rather have Ser Garrat have the honor?”

Karl helplessly exhales a shaky breath at the name. The templar’s name is like a curse among the mages in the tower. Garrat is known for being particularly brutal with those in his charge, beating and forcing himself on mages without repercussions. His actions have both directly and indirectly led to the deaths and suicides of too many, and Karl will never be able to forget the names of the lost.

So he can’t.

He can’t let his lover suffer through that.

Not when there’s a choice, even a heartless one like this.

Steeling himself, Karl rips the weapon out of the templar’s loose grip.

“That’s what I thought,” Belric tells him quietly, his smile a remarkable irony. He turns, addressing to the tower’s inhabitants. “Enchanter Thekla will deliver twenty-five strikes, five for every escape attempt.”

He shudders at the unexpectedly high number. 

The two templars holding Anders’ arms tear up the back of his shirt, up the center of the thin fabric of his commoner disguise. The planes of his back are visible, exposing all that beautiful soft skin that Karl has kissed in the darkness of his private quarters at night, between meticulously timed templar patrols.

Karl watches as Anders pulls at their grip, but they keep him steady in their iron, armored hands. His back is now facing him, and his lover gives him one last look over his shoulder before staring at the floor.

“Any time, Enchanter Thekla,” Belric says impatiently from the side, standing in a place where the view is clear.

Letting the tail of the whip unwind, Karl raises it in his shaky grip. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, not loud enough for anyone to hear, not even Anders. The words, as genuine as they might be, mean nothing compared to what he’s about to do.

The first lash doesn’t even feel real. A swish and then a shattering crack. The only thing that reminds Karl that this isn’t all a terrifying nightmare is the way Anders’ back bows away from the strike, tossing his head back with a loud cry.

The mages collectively wince, gasping in horror.

A red welt quickly blossoms on that previously unmarred skin. Karl is immediately struck by the urge to heal it, to run his fingers across it and make it vanish, to take away the pain.

“One,” Belric counts, and the reality dawns on Karl that he has to do this twenty-four more times.

The second lash is more difficult than the first, and every single strike that follows only burrows deeper into Karl’s heart, ripping a bloody path and catching like a barbed hook.

At ten, Anders’ skin breaks, blood dripping from several of his wounds. It rolls down his back in beads. Though he’s bleeding, he tugs at the templars’ hold, proud if not feeble.

‘ _Keep fighting_ ,’ Karl thinks.

At fifteen, Anders quiets considerably. Each following stroke only elicits a hiss of pain, a defeated groan.

‘ _Stay strong, love._ ’

At twenty, Karl feels he can’t continue. He wants to throw down the whip, the cruel and bloodied weapon forced into his hand. He wants to plead with Belric, beg for this to stop. He’ll take the lashes instead, even double the amount.

Anders is bleeding far more now, his body weakened so much that the templars at each elbow are the only reason he’s still standing on his feet.

“Five more,” Belric says.

And those five are some of the longest moments of Karl’s life. All sounds around him mute in his ears, no longer able to hear the whispering and cringing breaths of the onlooking mages. His attention zeroes in on his lover, hearing only his tiny pained gasps, the way he grits back any and all sounds that certainly give Belric too much satisfaction. It kills him to see how Anders barely flinches anymore, all of his fighting spirit has been drained from his body.

“Twenty five.”

The number, finally. They made it.

Karl sags to his knees, dropping the whip from his loose grip. His sight blurs from tears, but he recognizes that Belric comes to stand next to him, towering over him.

“I didn’t think you cared so much, Enchanter Thekla. He’s only an apprentice. There’s plenty more where he came from.”

‘ _Shut up!_ ’ Karl wants to scream, but he bites back his tongue. Such an outburst might kill them both. There is only one of Anders in the world, and he feels blessed by the Maker that his lover is in his life.

The vile demonstration of power is over. Enchanters begin moving immediately, shuffling the apprentices out of the hall quietly and orderly. Karl is thankful for how quickly the Great Hall is emptied, not allowing for any lingering eyes.

Karl reaches for Anders, to comfort, to hold. To apologize. But Knight-Captain Belris steps between them, ordering the pair of templars holding the love of his life. “Take him to solitary.”

“What? No!” Karl exclaims, but the templars have already started dragging a stumbling Anders towards the outer halls. He pushes himself to his feet, attempting to follow them but is held back by a strong hand pressed against the center of his chest. “You have to let me heal him!”

Belric’s lip quirks at his powerless demand. “That would defeat the purpose of his punishment, would it not?”

Karl purses his lips, furious.

“Seven days, Enchanter Thekla,” Belric tells him before turning on his heel and leaving Karl all alone in the giant room.

 

*

 

Seven days feels like seventy years, a lifetime without his love.

 

*

 

One of Wynne’s apprentices seeks him out on the morning of the eighth day. The older woman is waiting for him in the infirmary, and Karl’s feet can’t seem to carry him there fast enough.

The senior enchanter hovers over a pale body on a cot. Karl finds his heart stopping, frozen like an errant ice spell right to the chest. He races across the room, but halts only feet away when he sees her patient.

Anders lies on his stomach, either unconscious or sleeping—Karl certainly hopes it’s the latter. On his back, many of his lashes are discolored by infection, reopened and oozing more than just blood. His skin is still bright with welts, textured with marks soon to become lifelong scars after being left untreated for so long.

“His wounds are infected,” Wynne tells him though he already knows. “And badly, at that.”

“I will tend to him.”

“No,” Wynne replies instantly. “But you will stay.”

When she stands, heading toward the infirmary’s storage cabinets at the end of the long room, Karl turns back to his lover, silent, still as death. He reminds himself that the apprentice very well could have been if it was Ser Garrat at the right end of the whip, but Karl can’t praise himself for what he’s done.

Never.

Karl places a gentle hand on Anders’ cheek, his skin heated from the fever trying to burn the infection from his blood. His lover stirs, eyes not even open as Karl’s name falls from his lips. He smiles, bittersweet at the fact that he is Anders’ first thought upon waking.

Gold eyes slide open, glassy for a few moments before they focus on Karl, who moves closer to him, kneeling at his bedside.

Anders’ voice is weak, rough from disuse and quaking from pain. Karl would give anything to hear something witty, sarcastic like he always is.

“Karl,” he repeats, the name laced with all the love that Karl feels he no longer deserves.

Wynne returns with a potion and cloth, sitting back down on the chair beside the cot. She pours some of a potion onto the piece of linen. Karl can tell what it is by its stench and color. It will be painful, but it will help.

Threading his fingers between Anders’, Karl holds his hand tenderly, resting them both on the cot.

Anders’ slow and steady breaths turn to a hiss when Wynne begins dabbing the damp cloth against his wounds. When he feels him twitching, Karl lifts his hand and places a light kiss on the back of Anders’ hand, their eyes still locked on each other.

“I’m so sorry,” Karl whispers, his voice cracking with the overwhelming guilt he feels.

“You did what you had to.”

“I should have taken it instead.”

“You know that’s not how it works.”

Words dying in this throat, Karl nods, knowing what Anders says is true. Knight-Captain Belric would have never allowed it, or worse, given them both twenty-five lashes for the sole sake of inflicting pain.

“Why?” Karl asks, mouth dry. He swallows, trying again. “Why did you run?”

The question is finally out, one that’s been plaguing him since the first night he found Anders to be missing, since the first whispers of his newest escape attempt. He feels disappointment and betrayal mixed in with his affections for his apprentice, a confusing and destructive cocktail of emotions.

“I had to.”

The reply is so short, so simple, so _frustrating_ that it makes Karl want to shake him to get a better explanation.

“I had to do it,” Anders continues, his eyes no longer able to meet his out of shame. “You know I can’t stay here.”

And Karl can’t deny that it’s the Maker-damned truth. Anders is like a beautiful bird in a small dirty cage with no room to flutter, no room to stretch his wings and fly. The Circle is no place for most, but it certainly will make someone like Anders wither and die far too quickly.

“I know,” Karl finally relents after a long pause. “I know, love… But please, please stay with me, for as long as you can.”

Anders watches him with a careful eye, then nods. 

“For as long as I can,” he echoes in promise, squeezing his hand.

But the truth of the matter is that neither of them know how long that actually is.

A few minutes of silence pass, Wynne working silently and giving them as much privacy as she can while still sitting only a foot away.

“I love you,” Anders whispers, and it startles Karl.

It was something they had yet to express to each other. It’s still early in their relationship, and they both know everything in the Circle is temporary. He spares a glance at Wynne, who graciously acts like she can’t hear a thing.

“I love you, too.”

When the senior enchanter finishes disinfecting the wounds, Anders’ back looks considerably better. The gangrenous color has disappeared, and some of the broken skin has already begun knitting itself together.

She draws him to the doorway of the infirmary, far enough for Anders to be out of earshot.

“You’re a fool, Karl Thekla,” Wynne tells him. “You both are.”

Karl’s eyes between her and his lover. “I know.”

“Take care of him.”

“I will.”

 

*

 

After a few days, Karl facilitates moving Anders from the infirmary back to the apprentice dorms. It doesn’t last long, as Anders still finds his way to Karl’s private room in the dead of night, somehow avoiding the templar patrols much to his amusement.

He never says no, though, always letting Anders into his bed, under his sheets and into his arms. 

For the first several nights, they don’t talk much at all, much less about what happened. Karl desperately wants to, but the words stay heavy in his lungs, unable to escape.

During the daytime, Karl still overhears apprentices whisper Anders’ name during their gossip, and it’s obvious to him that Anders’ cruel punishment has affected them.

He curses under his breath, as Belric got exactly what he wanted.

Anders crawls into his lap one night, more contact than they’ve had in the past week outside of sleeping together. Karl lets his hands skate down the sides of his lover, careful of his back even though it has healed to scar tissue now. Slender fingers trail along his face in return, tracing cheekbones to the edge of his beard to his lips.

They watch each other in reverence and adoration, eyes unable to look away.

“I wanted to thank you,” Anders begins, breaking the peaceful silence in the room.

It surprises Karl, as Anders has nothing to thank him for. If anything, Karl should be apologizing to him. Perhaps now is when they can finally talk about it.

When he opens his mouth, Anders’ finger settles on his lips again, hushing him.

“For picking up the whip, instead of—”

“ _Don’t,_ ” Karl replies, a little too harshly. The intensity makes Anders flinch, and he rubs his thumb against the ridge of his lovers’ hipbone in a comforting gesture. “Don’t, Anders. Never—” He pauses, wetting his dry lips. “Never thank someone for hurting you, even if you love them.”

A few moments of silence, Anders sighs, nodding.

Instead of talking, they lay together: Anders against his chest, both listening to each other’s breathing, feeling each other's’ heartbeat. Karl lets his hands wander, first hesitantly, skimming along his sides, then across the many ridges of along his back. The ones he put there himself, even if it was the last thing on earth he wanted to do.

After a time, Anders looks up at Karl, resting his chin on his chest, then brushes their lips together.

“I meant what I said,” Anders whispers between kisses. “Back in the infirmary.”

Karl hums in question, lazily chasing after his lover’s lips.

“I love you.”

Anders rests their foreheads together, eyes searching each other like they can see into their souls. Instead of replying, Karl brings a hand to cup the back of Anders’ neck, fingers threading through the soft golden hair there, pulling him close for a deep kiss.

Anders responds well, fingers clutching at Karl’s sleep shirt while their lips move together. Karl can’t imagine a life without this, without Anders in his arms and his love in his heart. If he had a choice, he’d keep this—this moment and many more like it—forever.

But that decision is not entirely his to make.

“Did you mean the other thing?” he asks, and Anders flashes him a puzzled look. “About staying with me as long as you can?”

Anders is quiet for a long time, and each passing moment adds another heavy weight to Karl’s gut.

“Yes,” he finally says, kissing him. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

 

*

 

Which is not long enough.

**Author's Note:**

> more drunken writing for you
> 
> come find me on tumblr @ storybookhawke


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